


Playing With Fire

by thefontbandit



Series: Silver & Gold [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6102028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefontbandit/pseuds/thefontbandit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>More angst-ridden mutual pining and some true fluff (at long last). After the awkwardness of "Where I Stand", Dorian finds a new purpose at Skyhold while he and Adaar quite deliberately avoid one another. During some downtime with other residents of the keep, a chance meeting stirs things up between them, just before an ugly confrontation with his father causes Dorian to reassess his previous reluctance to pursue more with Adaar.</p><p>Takes place immediately after the previous part in this series, "Where I Stand".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing With Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I'm starting to fudge canon a little more here than before, switching the locations of some in-game events and modifying dialogue a little. I'm still trying to stay true to the essence of the canon, but tweaking it just a bit where it fits this story better.

Of all the paths Dorian ever thought his life might follow, the role of teacher had never once occurred to him.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” he reminds the seated apprentice. Jibrelle stares at the burning candle with a scowl. The flame dances higher with the intensity of her focus, and Dorian surreptitiously pools the necessary energy in case he needs to put out a sudden fire. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Frustrated, the girl puffs out the breath she’s been holding, making the flame wobble. “It’s useless,” she complains. When she frowns up at him, her wide dark eyes gleam with anger.

“Not useless, Jibrelle,” he corrects her gently, pointing back at the candle. “You’ve done it before, and you can do it again.”

“This is stupid,” she mutters, sulking.

Dorian takes a long, deep breath, schooling himself to patience. “No. Close your eyes.”

When she complies, he speaks quietly, calmly. “Take a long, deep breath in through your nose, count to five.”

Her upper lip twitches in a bit of a snarl, but the girl obeys.

“Now breathe out through your mouth, just as slow.”

A sudden burst of chatter from the courtyard outside the tower makes Jibrelle’s eyes fly open. With a sigh, Dorian crosses to the window and closes the shutters.

“Again.” He guides her through the breathing exercise until her anger has fled, her scowl softens, and her hands relax on the tabletop.

“Picture the candle in your mind. Don’t try to  _do_  anything, just paint it in your imagination as fully as possible. The translucent amber color, the way the light glows through it, the shape, the size, the smell of the tallow, the warmth of the flame. Make it real.”

After a few moments, he asks, “Do you have it?”

She nods, a small motion.

“Good. Now pull on the energy of the Fade like we practiced. Remember, just spool it into yourself like you’re winding a ball of yarn between your hands. Hold on to that energy, and imagine reaching out to pinch the candle wick between your fingers. Visualize how it snuffs out quickly, the puff of smoke, the acrid scent, the sudden dimness.”

The candle flame before him flickers, then gutters out.

Dorian smiles. “Open your eyes.”

The girl’s joy is as effusive as her petulant anger was a moment ago. “I did it!”

“You did. If you don’t push so hard next time, I wager you’ll succeed even faster at your next lesson.”

The girl pouts as she pushes the chair back and stands, barely chest high to him. So tiny, so  _young_. Though she’s a handful of years older than Dorian was when he first started his magical studies, she seems so very small to him. Jibrelle scowls. “When do I get to learn any of the fun stuff?”

Dorian holds up a hand in the universal gesture for denial. “You will learn how to start fires when you can put them out without assistance.”

“But Elland and Delia are both already practicing their first primal spells!”

“Your friends can both douse the fires they start,” he points out needlessly.

“Well, what about necromancy, then? Isn’t that why they put me with you?”

It is, actually.

Jibrelle is a bit of a special case. Most mages are discovered when their abilities surface as basic primal magics. Setting fire to something, or a sheen of ice forming on nearby objects in midsummer. But Jibrelle had been brought in by the Templars when she’d been attacked by bullies and the phantom of a nearby dead crow had leapt to her defense. Summoning the spirit of a deceased creature, even one as small as a bird, is an exceedingly complicated and rare magic for a child to wield by accident. Dorian has never heard of a mage first manifesting their power in such a way, not even himself.

The girl shows immense promise. Magical energy practically crackles around her, clinging to the child like burrs to wool. But she’s spent four terror-filled years, a full third of her life, desperately hiding her latent talent to avoid detection by the Chantry. There are powerful walls in her psyche, and sometimes even she can’t push past them.

Worse, she isn’t the only such case in Skyhold right now.

The influx of young, untrained mages is a problem. When the Inquisitor recruited the mages that sought harbor in Redcliffe, he’d gotten the lot of them, including a small batch of green apprentices with varying levels of skill and learning. Fiona had persuaded a reluctant Dorian to help with a few youths that showed aptitude for his specialties. He’d rebuffed her initially. What did he know of children, of teaching?

But it was the right thing to do, and at least he might help give these apprentices a proper education, rather than the slapshod techniques that passed for magical studies here in the south. At first, there had been a small outcry at the Tevinter teaching the children, but Vivienne silenced that rather effectively. Dorian isn’t sure he wants to know how.

He’s unsure how much good he does, really. Some of the apprentices know just enough to be dangerous, and Dorian is all too aware of the Commander’s wary eyes on these vulnerable, half-trained youths.

With tensions running so high, even a minor accident could ignite a storm of trouble like a spark to gaatlok. These students must not,  _cannot_ , take reckless risks.

“Primal magic first,” Dorian reminds Jibrelle as she crosses her arms and glares up at him. “The harder you study and the faster you master that, the quicker we’ll move on to the ‘fun stuff’. Patience,” he warns.

 _Hypocrite,_  a tiny voice nags in the back of his mind, reminding him of his own irresponsible, youthful experimentations. Caution has most decidedly never been his strongest suit, particularly when it comes to magic.  _And look where all those experiments ended up_ , he thinks to himself grimly. A hole in the fabric of time, both Gereon and Felix gone. Perhaps that is the truth behind the wisdom of age, learning restraint through one’s greatest failures.

Or maybe it’s another influence that calms his recklessness now.

 _No,_  Dorian tells himself bitterly. It can’t be the Inquisitor. He hasn’t spoken a single word to the man in nearly a month. The last words Kashek spoke to Dorian still echo in his mind.  _‘The next move is yours. I won’t disturb you further.’_  And he hasn’t, leaving Dorian to find other ways to fill his time at Skyhold.

Dorian doesn’t know which is worse, the awkward, piercing ache of their last journey together, or watching the Inquisitor leave Skyhold in the company of others, off to face danger without Dorian to watch his back. What if Vivienne slips and Kashek does not return, someday? The thought hurts, a physical pain like a punch to the gut.

“Enchanter Pavus?” Jibrelle calls his name, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Are you okay?”

Instinct takes over. He smiles reassuringly, a makeshift bandage over the pain. “My apologies. My thoughts wandered.” Crossing to the desk in purposeful strides, he picks up the papers his student has brought to the lesson. Painstakingly copied onto the parchment sheets are basic barrier glyphs. A few lines are smudged here and there, but the shapes are good, the form is present. It would work if cast, though not quite as strong as it could be.

“Good work,” he congratulates her. “Bring three more copies of this same glyph to your next lesson. If they’re good, we can try casting it next time.”

“Again?” She complains, crossing her arms petulantly. “I’ve drawn that thing twenty-two times.”

“Yes, and after twenty-five, you’ll know every line of it by heart. Three more,” he reminds her firmly. “And finish the third chapter of Enchanter Ygraine’s book by then as well.”

“Fine. Am I dismissed?”

He waves a hand at her with a fond smile. “Yes, go. I’ll see you next week.”

Without another word, the girl scampers off, leaving Dorian to tidy up. He really should make his apprentices do the cleaning, as a part of their studies. Perhaps he is too lenient as an instructor, but tidying occupies his time and his mind. He stacks Jibrelle’s glyph drawings, placing them in the folder with the rest of her work, and filing it away. The books they’d referenced during Jibrelle’s lesson are gathered and reshelved for other students as well.

The newly-renovated mage’s tower is well-stocked, Dorian has to admit. Josephine, Fiona, and Vivienne have done an admirable job of using their contacts to fill the library and supply shelves. It is still painfully provincial, but they have a decent supply of the basic necessities and even a few more esoteric items. He suspects the more interesting oddities have been procured from Xenon’s strange shop; they could have come from nowhere else.

The friendly chatter outside has grown louder now. He pays it little mind until he hears a single, clear voice declaring loudly and in shocked tones, “You cheated!”

 _Is that the Ambassador?_ Curious, Dorian finishes putting away the last of the supplies and leaves the tower, peering over the battlements at the small crowd in the garden courtyard below. In a small open area near some benches, a mixed group of perhaps a dozen people clusters.

True to his suspicion, a single figure stands in the center, her cloth-of-gold garments gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Josephine. In one hand, she holds a long stick, forked at one end. A scrap of dark cloth hangs from her other hand.

She’s surrounded by a small, motley group that includes The Iron Bull and a few of his Chargers, a handful of the Inquisition's scouts, and Lace Harding, currently back at Skyhold on a brief furlough from duty.

As his eyes take in the entire scene, Dorian notes the small wooden stakes that have been placed into a sort of meandering course, and the fist-sized wooden ball in Krem’s grasp.

Confusion washes over him. He recognizes this game.

A friendly voice interrupts his perplexed thoughts. “It started with some sort of debate between Harding and Krem,” Varric explains, approaching from behind him and leaning against the lowest section of the battlements to peer at the group below. “Krem taught everyone the rules, and there’s some sort of wager going on. Apparently the goal is to guide a blindfolded teammate while they push the ball through the course.”

“While the other team directs their blindfolded member to steal the ball without touching the Shepherd,” Dorian adds softly.

Varric gives Dorian a sidelong glance. “You know the game?”

“It’s called Blind Shepherd. A common enough children’s game in Tevinter, though I haven’t seen it since I was very young,” Dorian admits. “I’d forgotten all about it.” Below them, Krem laughs at Josie’s indignation and takes the items from her hands. “How did they convince the Ambassador to join in?”

“On that, I have no idea. She was crossing the garden and somehow Krem cajoled her to join in a round. I couldn’t make out the words from up here.”

Below, Krem takes on the role of shepherd, placing the ball at the beginning of the course and tying on the blindfold while Harding’s team moves the stakes to outline a new course.

They watch the chaos below in amused, companionable silence for a few minutes. After a time, Varric turns his head to regard Dorian. “So how goes the role of professor? You tenured yet?”

Dorian sighs and runs one hand through his hair in frustration. “Progress is painfully slow,” he admits. “Jibrelle has unbelievable potential, but she’s been running from her own abilities for so long that she can’t break down her own walls.” His voice rises, impassioned with frustration. “If she had been born in Tevinter, her talent would have been cultivated, not hidden as some secret shame.”

“Huh,” Varric replies, his voice dry, laden with sarcasm. “Now I wonder why that sounds familiar? Funny. It’s almost as if something condemned in one society is seen as perfectly normal in another.” His sidelong glance is pointed.

Agitation bubbles up within him, and Dorian glares at Varric, his gaze flat. “The irony is not lost on me, dwarf.” The annoyance is sudden, consuming, an angry thorn in his side. It’s becoming all too common; his moods have become increasingly caustic lately.

With a conscious effort, Dorian takes a deep breath to shake his irritation. He hadn’t noticed how much the Inquisitor’s quiet strength calmed him until Kashek was gone. But on bad days, he can feel himself sliding back into the man he used to be, in the worst of his life before the Inquisition. A reckless maverick, rudderless and defiant, a man who drowned his anger in drink and wild, unspeakable debauchery. Though the vindictive satisfaction of dragging his family’s good name through the dirt had been a pleasant perk, that life had always left him empty. He has no desire to return to that. Here, with the Inquisition, he’s found a purpose again, one he hasn’t had since before Gereon’s madness gripped him, before Livia died and Felix fell ill.

He mustn’t lose sight of that sense of commitment, can’t let his own infatuations distract him from that.

Varric’s voice shakes him from his thoughts. “So what’s the deal, Sparkler? Adaar is close-lipped about it, but if anyone so much as mentions your name, he gets this awful wounded-puppy look and changes the subject. If you really weren’t interested, you’d have told him to get lost long ago. So what’s the hold up?”

Dorian sighs, his stomach wrenched into painful knots at Varric’s words, at the thought of Kashek in pain. Worse, that the Inquisitor is hurting because of Dorian’s own cowardice.

And cowardice it is. That much he can admit to himself now, if no one else.

It has taken time, but in the past months he’s come to realize that these southern lands truly do not care about one’s preference in partners. But how can he tell Varric that a different sort of fear grips him now, when he thinks of the Inquisitor?

For all his homeland’s angry railing about his scandalous preferences, Dorian had never really found a lack of willing bedwarmers in Tevinter. What had eluded his grasp was someone who wanted more than just a tumble, a night of mindless pleasure and done with it.

Pretty enough for the sheets, but never desirable enough as a person.

That knowledge once cut more deeply, but it is an old wound, the sharp edges dulled with time like a badly-healed injury that only aches when it rains.

Which is why Kashek’s alcohol-fueled confession that Satinalia night frightens him so. It reopened scars he’d thought long since scabbed over.

The Inquisitor’s speech is burned into his memory, turned over and over in his mind since then like a pebble worn smooth in a river’s current. Pretty words are a familiar part of the game of seduction, but there had been no flowery declarations of beauty, no honeyed flattery. The Inquisitor had not spoken of desire or tried to bed him. No, in plain words, he’d mentioned wanting  _more_ , asking for a closeness of a kind completely alien to Dorian. ‘ _More_.’ So painfully, tantalizingly vague. The Qunari’s words had sliced him open, unearthed hopes and desires he’d thought long dead.

It is terrifying.

So much potential for an even deeper hurt lies there, the possibility of a wound far graver than any of his old scars. It is an injury he’s not sure he’d be able to come back from.

His stomach twists painfully at the thought, his heart racing in a sudden fight-or-flight response.

The silence has drawn out, and Varric fills it cautiously. “He returned this morning.”

“I know.” Dorian’s response is brittle and sharp. How could he  _not_  notice, when the castle buzzed with the Inquisitor’s return? Kashek has been gone longer than expected this time, leaving Dorian anxiously idle, waiting for word and hating himself for such weakness. Two nights ago, he’d drunk himself completely sodden in his self-pity and anger, something he hadn’t done since he left Tevinter.

A dangerous line to walk, to flirt with becoming that version of himself again. He owes the Inquisition better than that.

Varric sighs. The dwarf is a master of the sigh, packing an astonishing amount of exasperation into the gesture. “He still waits for you, you know. For now. My friend is a patient man, but even he can’t wait forever.”

Irritation flares again. The dwarf does not need to point out the obvious. “I know that too,” Dorian snaps. “Why are you pushing this so hard, Varric? What do you gain from this meddling?”

Varric is nonplussed by Dorian’s curtness. “Sometimes it’s not about personal gain, Dorian. Maybe I just like to see my friends happy, even in spite of themselves. Even when they’re both being stubborn idiots.” His voice is laden with frustration, a weary weight in the dwarf’s eyes.

Dorian doesn’t miss the reference, doesn’t fail to notice that he’s included in Varric’s declaration of friendship, but his annoyance still remains. “And perhaps those friends are capable of making their own decisions,” he replies tartly.

Varric grimaces. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Hawke rubbed off on me a little too much. Before I met her, I was perfectly happy staying out of everything.” He shakes his head. “It’s your call, Sparkler. I’m done poking my nose in where it isn’t wanted.”

As he turns to walk away, Dorian calls out to him. “Wait. I’m sorry. Your concern is kind, Varric, if a bit irritating.” But he softens the words with a smirk. “Not your fault I’m unpleasant company. The game below seems a more friendly option,” he suggests. “I think perhaps it might cheer me to watch you play,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow.

Varric pauses, turning to face Dorian again. He snorts, “I much prefer cards, thank you. Though I think a little silliness would do  _you_  some good right now. Maybe you should join instead.”

Dorian shakes his head, a wry grin curling his lips. “I’ll participate when you do, dwarf.”

“Okay.”

“What?”

Varric smiles slyly. “Don’t make a deal you aren’t prepared to keep, especially with a former member of the merchant caste.” He gestures down at the yard below. “I’ll join the game, in which case you just agreed to do the same.”

Dorian groans. “It was just a jest, Varric.”

“Ah, but you did say it. Deal’s a deal, Sparkler. Off we go.”

 

* * *

 

 

“No, Krem!” Bull shouts, exasperated. “You can’t just fumble and poke at it like a rutting gurgut! You have to caress the ball, coax it, gently guide it where it wants to go!”

“And what would you know about that, Chief?” Krem, blindfolded in the center of the newly-rearranged course, replies without missing a beat. “Should I let you and the ball have some quiet alone time? Maybe bring you both a nice bottle of wine, a candlelight dinner?”

While they banter, Harding’s scouts call out a confused mess of instructions to their leader, who is wandering off-course in the wrong direction.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Dorian remarks dryly as they approach.

“Probably, but it promises to be amusing for the rest of us,” Varric grins. As they draw near, the dwarf waves to Bull. Josephine is nowhere to be seen, her duties presumably calling.

“Need a couple more players?” Varric asks.

Bull nods with a friendly wave, but is too busy directing his second-in-command to reply immediately.

“Left, Krem,” he says. “No, the  _other_  left!” He sighs, running a hand across his face in exasperation. “This game is ridiculous.”

Dorian watches for a moment, then takes a gamble and calls out to the Charger. “Krem! Two four.”

Krem cocks his head for a moment, then nods and takes two steps straight ahead, pushing the ball along with him.

When he pauses, Dorian wracks his brain to remember the old terminology. “B-turn,” he says after a few moments.

When Krem makes the correct turn, Dorian feels his mouth widen in a predatory grin, his competitive spark kindled. He calls out the rest of the commands, and Krem navigates the course as if the blindfold isn’t even there. He pushes the ball through the hoop at the end of the course, where it rings against the metal stake placed there. The Charger then removes the blindfold and turns with a triumphant grin.

“Well, shit,” Bull declares, regarding Dorian with something between amusement and surprise. “What was that?”

Dorian can’t keep the small, smug smile from his face when he replies. “Code. The game isn’t really about communication, except to fleece new players. It’s about distracting your opponents.” Only now does it occur to Dorian how such a game is early training for the high-stakes machinations of Tevinter society. “I wasn’t sure Krem would know the same code we used,” he admits.

Krem walks back to them with a grin. “Nicely done, Pavus.” To the head scout, he calls out smugly, “You can stop now, Harding. Looks like you owe me twenty silver.” Still facing the wrong direction, Lace mutters softly under her breath and removes her blindfold.

“You cheated!” she declares in mock indignation.

“People do keep saying that, but I don’t think you really understand the concept,” Krem taunts casually.

“No fair having both experienced players on your team,” one of the scouts backs up his leader, pointing to Dorian.

“Yeah,” Harding adds, nodding. “Rematch, double or nothing, and the mage is on our team this time. First to ten points?”

Krem laughs. “I’ll take that wager.”

 

 

As much as Dorian hates to admit it, the dwarf was right. A bit of silliness does lighten his spirits.

A few rounds later, both he and Krem have managed to teach their teams some of the basic code, which leads to some entertaining mix-ups when neither the Shepherd nor the Wolf can identify their own teammate’s calls. Players start picking up more advanced strategy too, calling the wrong name and bad commands deliberately, or trying to distract the opposing team. Some of those antics are ones Dorian will never be able to unsee, unfortunately.

But by the time the sky is just starting to darken into late afternoon, his team is winning at 7 to 5. They’ve drawn a crowd at this point, with some picking a side and joining in. Others are content just to watch, some of those placing wagers on the eventual outcome.

As luck would have it, it’s his turn as the Wolf when he hears a sudden lull in the chaotic chatter, all conversations bubbling to a halt.

“Boss!” Bull calls cheerfully, and Dorian’s heart sinks. “Care to join us? Our side’s looking a bit thin.”

 _Well this is just fantastic,_ he thinks. Blindfolded and wandering about like an idiot is not how he wanted the Inquisitor to see him again.

Stopping in his tracks, he slips off his blindfold and turns. Kashek stands on the edge of the course, having parted a path through the gathered crowd, looking around at the scene in bemusement.

His wandering eyes halt when they meet Dorian’s, and the mage feels a small rush of heat in his cheeks. Wonderful.

At least he has the small consolation of Varric also looking just as foolish, only two paces away. The dwarf has also removed his blindfold to see what caused the sudden silence in the commotion. A small part of Dorian’s mind can’t help but note how tantalizingly close he’d been to scoring another point.

“Just a friendly wager, Boss,” Bull explains. “Chargers could use some backup, though. We’ll teach you the rules if you’re in.”

The Inquisitor can’t seem to take his eyes from Dorian’s. The Qunari is wearing the awful getup he prefers at Skyhold, the black-and-red print of his shirt screaming for attention, topped with that dull gray leather vest.  _He’d look so much better in blue,_  Dorian thinks. Crimson and black make his skin look pale and ashen, though there is a pinkish flush high in his cheeks. A dark bruise and small, scabbed cut graces the right side of his face now, a mark he didn’t have when he left. A dread-inducing reminder of the danger he faces without Dorian now.

This is the nearest the two have been to one another since they returned from their last mission together, nearly a month ago. Well, twenty-eight days, to be precise. Four weeks in which the closest they’ve been is separated by a courtyard. Dorian suspects the Inquisitor has even been deliberately avoiding the library when he’s there. But now Kashek stands a handful of paces away, close enough for Dorian to note the wary caution in his eyes.

Dorian manages a small, sheepish grin at the strange circumstances, despite his pulse pounding loudly in his ears. Unable to handle it any longer, his gaze slides away and he looks to Varric. “Reset the match?” he asks casually.

Varric nods, though he rolls his eyes and heaves another of those award-winning sighs.

“I think I’ll pass,” the Inquisitor says slowly, reluctantly. “But carry on, Bull.”

Against his better judgment, Dorian glances up as Kashek turns away.

 _Splendid. Now this mess is spilling over,_ he realizes. The Inquisitor is now avoiding the company of others for his sake.

They can’t keep going like this. It’s ridiculous.

_The next move is yours._

Suddenly, Dorian is disgusted with himself. How has he become such a coward? Never before has he run from his fears, often plunging headlong into them instead. Why so meek now? It’s unbecoming of him, and it has to end.

He’s imagined this meeting in any number of ways over the past weeks, but Dorian never expected to have an audience for it.  _Proceed with caution, then._  He summons his courage, takes a deep breath, and speaks. “Looks like your team is done for, Bull,” he taunts.

The Inquisitor stops and turns, his eyes searching Dorian’s face.

_Well, no going back now._

“Are you sure you don’t want to give us a run for our money, Inquisitor?” Dorian smiles past the anxious fire running along every nerve.

The warm grin that Kashek returns him breaks his heart, those green-and-gold eyes holding a spark of hope. “All right.” His smile widens and he teases, “you’ll regret that taunt, Dorian.”

 _I fear I might,_  Dorian thinks to himself,  _but not because you’ll win this game._

Kashek turns to Bull. “Explain the rules while they play the next round?”

“With pleasure, boss.”

It’s still a bit embarrassing, to replace the blindfold and begin the round again, knowing that the Inquisitor’s eyes are on him. But it fuels his competitive nature, and Dorian listens for Harding’s instructions, focusing on only her voice. The head scout picked up the code quickly, and by now she can rattle off commands rapidly as long as she manages not to get distracted. Unfortunately, that happens all too often.

But it seems the addition of the Inquisitor to the ranks of their opponents has lit a fire under her as well. The dwarf manages to maintain focus and guide his movements carefully. After a brief few minutes, he manages to knock the ball free of Varric’s stick with his own, signaling victory for their team this round.

Triumphant, he slips off the blindfold and confidently saunters back to his team, handing the scrap of cloth and the stick to Harding. “Eight-five,” he notes. “Two more and the victory is yours.”

“Ours.” Her smile is contagious, and Dorian finds himself responding in kind while other scouts clap him on the shoulder in congratulations for a round well-played. A strange and somewhat uncomfortable sensation, this camaraderie. He’s become so accustomed to suspicious sideways glances that this feels somehow alien. He wonders if it will last after the game is over.

Dorian sneaks a glance at Kashek on the south side of the course. He is in conversation with the Iron Bull, but his eyes catch Dorian’s. The Inquisitor’s smile is warm, though his cheeks flush with that telltale blush of his.

The sight warms Dorian through to the core, this smile he’s missed so achingly for four weeks.

Suddenly conflicted, he glances away. The next round is set, Harding against Dalish this time, and the teams begin their shouting.

Perhaps the adrenaline rush of victory has made him bold, or maybe now that he’s started the ball rolling down the hill, it can’t be stopped. But through the crowd and the commotion, Dorian picks his way around the course. It’s easy enough to do, with members of both teams moving about while they call false commands in order to cause confusion on the opposite team.

Kashek watches him approach through the throng. Once, he takes a few steps in Dorian’s direction, but seems to catch himself and stops self-consciously. Instead, he waits, arms crossed as if it will hold him in place.

Nervous moths flutter in his belly when Dorian approaches. For a few long moments, he stands before the Inquisitor, realizing he hadn’t thought far enough ahead to decide what he should say. His tongue seems tangled, his mind frozen.

“Welcome back,” he says eventually, lamely.

It’s a small bit of comfort when Kashek, cheeks brilliant pink, responds just as pathetically, his voice a bit rough. “You play this game well.”

Dorian turns to watch Dalish and Harding on the course. Perhaps this will be easier if he isn’t confronted by the guileless hope in the Inquisitor’s face. His mind is still a confusing jumble, unsure of just what he’s even trying to accomplish right now.

“To be fair, Krem and I have a bit of an advantage,” he admits, at least able to keep his voice steady.

“So Bull told me.”

Awkward, the silence that falls between the pair while the crowd shouts all around them.

Finally, Kashek exhales suddenly, a sigh of some sort. “I missed you,” he says, so quietly that the sound is almost lost in the crowd.

Dorian’s reply freezes on his tongue. Can he admit this? Too late not to, now. Dragging the words out of himself with an effort, he replies, “I missed you too.” Such feeble words to describe the empty ache he’s felt all month.

It’s not a confession of everlasting adoration, not by a long shot.

But maybe it’s a start at… something.

“Can we… talk later?” Kashek’s question is cautious, as if he’s afraid Dorian will run again.

He’s tempted to flee. His racing pulse and every instinct screams at him to run. But no, the time has come to make a decision, one way or the other. No more hiding.

Not trusting his tongue, Dorian nods, still watching the game.

Kashek leans in closer, so he won’t be overheard by anyone in the crowd. His low voice is a soft rumble by Dorian’s ear, close enough that the warmth of his breath sends a shiver down Dorian’s spine. “Tonight? After nightfall, in my basement study.”

Fitting, Dorian supposes, that they meet in the same place the true awkwardness had begun, the very room of the Inquisitor’s impassioned speech that Satinalia evening.

Again, he nods.

“Dorian!”

He startles when his name is called by Harding out on the field. So, she’d noticed his absence from the game.

“Please tell my scouts that  _four_  means straight ahead, not  _three_!” Harding complains with a laugh.

With a brief, apologetic smile at the Inquisitor, Dorian weaves his way back through the crowd, calling out commands to his teammate and trying hard to still his pounding heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

 

Kashek watches Dorian leave, and can still feel his cheeks emanating that traitorous warmth of his blush.

Tonight. He swallows past the nervous lump in his throat. An answer would come in just a few scant hours, though Dorian’s demeanor gives him no hints as to what that answer might be.

 _He called out to me when I turned to leave,_ Kashek reminds himself.

But the mage could just want to end the awkward distance between them, could extend a hand in friendship and nothing more.

It will hurt if that happens, no denying that. Sharp spines prick his chest just at the thought of it.

But the Inquisitor knows that option is still vastly preferable to Dorian’s complete absence. These past four weeks, everything has been foggier, dimmer, the colors muted.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bull approaching. Hard to miss, since both of them are easily a head taller than anyone else in the crowd.

“A word, Boss?” the mercenary asks, tossing his head to indicate a direction.

Kashek nods and follows Bull out past the ring of onlookers, out of easy earshot. They still have a clear view of the game over the heads of the crowd. Dorian is easily visible on the opposite side of the course, calling out to Harding in quick coded instructions. It’s good to see him smiling, laughing. And not just that rueful, lopsided smirk, but a true, joyous grin, his full-throated laugh echoing across the garden.

The sound is bittersweet, twisting him inside. It’s been hard to stay away. More than once he’s been tempted to break his own promise, just to cross through the library while Dorian is there, to catch his eye for just a moment. The mage’s absence on missions is palpable. It’s the quiet moments he misses most, the long conversations at camp after a weary day of hiking, or the friendly banter shared on a morning’s ride.

But perhaps Dorian has flourished in this new situation. Vivienne says his students have progressed well under his tutelage, that teaching actually rather suits him. Certainly he seems lighthearted enough today, as he stands at the edge of the field, sharing good-natured barbs with the Chargers.

Full winter is here, and the mage wears a long, cream-colored coat trimmed with gray fennec fur to guard against the cold. It suits him, though it’s certainly Fereldan in style, a sharp contrast to his usual Tevinter garb. Kashek wonders if Dorian is starting to adapt to Ferelden’s practical fashion sense, or if he’d kicked up a disdainful fuss when  _that_  coat was all the Skyhold merchants had available. The latter is certainly more likely, and the thought curves Kashek’s mouth in a wry smile.

“So,” Bull says bluntly beside him, his voice pitched low to avoid prying ears. “Are you going to hit that or what?”

“What?” His head turns sharply to blink at Bull in confusion. For a moment, Kashek’s brain refuses to process Bull’s words. He tumbles them over in his head, looking for another possible meaning and coming up empty. “What do you mean?”

“C’mon, Boss,” Bull says with a smirk. “You and the Vint have been making eyes at each other for what, four months? Five?”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t bother trying to lie, you  _really_  suck at it. Plus, Ben-Hassrath, remember?” Bull shakes his head. “Though it doesn’t take a master of observation to pick up on the vibes you’re giving off. You’d make a really shitty spy, Boss. Just saying.”

“Why are you asking this?” Kashek mutters, still perplexed, his face burning.

“Because,” Bull stares thoughtfully across the field at Dorian. “Seems like things might be a no-go for you, what with the months and nothing happening. And he is awfully pretty. Be a shame to let that go to waste. From the bedroom eyes he gives you when you’re not looking, I figure the Qunari thing isn’t an issue, so maybe I’ve got a shot. So are you still staking a claim or is he fair game yet?”

The possessive fury that boils up within Kashek surprises him. His fists clench tightly at his sides, and words fail him.

“Hm. Guess that’s my answer,” Bull remarks, throwing up a hand in a ‘no-threat’ gesture and nonchalant as ever. “No harm meant, Boss. Just asking.”

As suddenly as it poured over him, the anger seeps away, and Kashek sighs. “Sorry, Bull.”

The mercenary just shakes his head again as he starts to move back toward the group. “Still, if you change your mind, let me know?” He tosses Kashek a brief lecherous grin before slipping back into the crowd.

 

 

“What was that about, Chief?” Krem asks quietly with a nod toward the Inquisitor when Bull resumes his place next to his lieutenant.

“Just giving the guy a friendly nudge,” Bull replies casually.

“Some of that Ben-Hassrath nonsense?”

“Nah, this one’s just for Adaar. Man won’t think twice to stand up for someone else, but he could use a prod or two to realize he should fight for himself, too.”

“So still spy games, but for the greater good this time, eh?”

Bull grins. “More or less.”

 

* * *

 

 

Kashek leans on the desk in the small library and stares at the signature on the bottom of the letter.  _Magister Halward of House Pavus_ , it declares boldly in a sharp, spiky hand.

Frustration lances through him. Why did Mother Giselle have to approach him this very evening? And with a demand like that, too? How could she even imagine he would lie to any of his friends, particularly Dorian?

Suddenly, he realizes he’s crumpled the sheet of paper in his fist again. He sighs, trying unsuccessfully to calm himself down, and smooths it out as best he can.

He could wait to reveal the letter until after they speak of… other things. But as soon as the traitorous thought crosses his mind, Kashek rejects it. No. That discussion will have to wait a while longer yet. The thought makes Kashek’s stomach tighten painfully. Some instinct warns him that a delay may put the two right back where they were before, that giving the mage time to think may make him think twice.

But so be it.

The door opens, creaky on old, rusted hinges.

Kashek is startled by his own surprise. He hadn’t realized his doubts ran so deep, unsure whether Dorian would even show up. But his heart lifts at the sound of the creaking door, at the sight of the mage slipping through and closing it behind him. He stands there, silent, head held high but not approaching yet.

“Before you say anything,” Kashek says softly, “I have a letter for you.”

He can almost see the man donning his mask, the sly twist to his lips so practiced it must be sheer habit. “Ooh, a letter,” Dorian slips back into his casual joking demeanor. “Is it a naughty letter?”

Kashek sighs. “No.”

He knows it will be unpleasant. The one time he’d asked Dorian about his family, the mage had given him that familiar, self-deprecating half-smile and remarked that they did not get along, then changed the subject. But Kashek isn’t prepared for the sudden, violent flare of anger when he mentions Dorian’s father.

The mage paces like an agitated cat as he reads the letter in the candlelight. His rant is impressive, smattered with a handful of phrases in Tevene whose meaning can be surmised from the inflection.

The Inquisitor lets Dorian vent until his anger runs its course. There will be no other discussion tonight, but Kashek finds he doesn’t care. He only wants to soothe Dorian, to calm that spark of distress and anger in his eyes.

Dorian even snaps at Kashek in his irritation when the Inquisitor tries to help, lashing out like a cornered animal. “I didn’t ask what you thought, did I?” he snarls.

It stings, despite the weary, heartfelt apology a moment later. The Inquisitor tries to push it aside. Just Dorian’s frustrated anger, finding the nearest target.

Patience and kindness are what he needs most, and those things Kashek can provide.

“It’s too late to travel tonight, but I will go with you in the morning,” he offers quietly. “We can travel light, take our fastest horses, and be there the day after tomorrow.”

“I… thank you,” Dorian accepts, staring down at the words as if they have more secrets to give up, if only he looks hard enough.

 

* * *

 

 

It is ugly, the unexpected meeting with Magister Pavus. No retainer waited to meet them, but Dorian’s father lying in wait instead.

The ambush against an unprepared Dorian and the subsequent argument fills Kashek with a simmering rage.

Kashek wants to hit the man, which worries him. Unlike Bull, he’s never really enjoyed violence. Holding a shield and a blade is just something he’s always been good at, an unpleasant necessity that could put food on the table. But the naked anguish in Dorian’s voice is like a physical pain. The thought that someone could claim to love Dorian and yet want to change him makes Kashek’s vision swim red, and his mind paints vivid images of his fist crunching into the magister’s face.

But he holds back, for Dorian’s sake if nothing else.

When they leave, the two-day ride back to Skyhold is made in heavy silence aside from the necessary talk of travel. Nothing he can say will help, he knows, but he still longs to somehow patch it, to heal those wounds.

They both have much to ponder. The confrontation revealed one fact that Kashek had not known. He had never realized that Tevinter placed such a heavy condemnation on pairings between men. Is that the reason Dorian has been so distant, rather than any reluctance regarding Kashek himself?

He casts a sidelong glance at the mage, riding a little ahead. No, Kashek still doubts. Dorian seems to have little trouble defying any other rule if he feels it’s for the best. No, there’s something else holding him back.

 _Or there’s an obvious answer. He doesn’t want you, and he’s just avoiding talking to you about it._  A sharp, piercing pain in his chest, like a broken rib.

Suddenly, he feels selfish, to think only of himself at this time. Dorian deserves better.

Unable to think of any words that will soften the pain for either of them, the rest of the long, long ride is made in quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

_Brave._

That’s what the Inquisitor calls him. Not foolish, not selfish, not wrong, but ‘brave’. Dorian feels his lips tug into a small smile when Kashek regards him not with judgment, but with pride.

The morning after their return to Skyhold, the Inquisitor has come to see him here, in the library alcove he favors both for the soft wintry light that filters through its small window, and the chair that is both threadbare and unbelievably comfortable. Last night, Kashek had left him with a few awkward parting words when they arrived back at the keep, but this morning he has come to see how Dorian fares.

He fears he does not truly merit such kindness, but it is comforting nonetheless.

Dorian is still trying to sort through the confrontation, his anger cooled, now forged into weary acceptance. He’d learned nothing new of his father in Redcliffe, but it is painful to fully accept the truth. The man will never change, too much a part of genteel Tevinter society and all its values.

A clean break, then. But it still hurts, cutting out a small piece of himself and discarding it, the part of Dorian that always, in some small way, hoped that he could someday reconcile with his family. He will need some time to mourn that element of himself, but already the wound starts to close.

A healing aided in no small part by the Qunari that stands before him, all sympathetic eyes and proud smiles.

Another realization arose from the ugliness of that argument, a small pearl formed from that bitter experience. He’d made a stand against his father, against the values and taboos of the Imperium, taken a stance with the Inquisition and all they represent.

And the man who stands at its fore.

No more hiding, no more running.

His heart still pounds a frantic tattoo against his ribs. Dorian came to his resolution during the unbearably silent two days of riding, but needed time to accept it, to steel his courage before he acted upon it. He’d decided to wait until later tonight to try for a quiet moment with the Inquisitor. But it seems the man found him first instead.

Kashek continues. “I don’t think less of you,” he reassures Dorian quietly. “More, if possible.” He takes a small step to shorten the distance between them. One hand rises as if to reach out, but he pulls it back again. It’s a gesture Dorian has seen before, and one he’s always pretended not to notice. But here, now, he can ignore it no longer.

As the Inquisitor moves even closer, he clings to one side of the reading nook, leaving a wide gap on his right.

 _Giving me an easy escape, in case I flee?_  Dorian wonders. It seems deliberate, when Kashek’s mass could easily block the alcove.

The Qunari is close now, so near that Dorian cranes his neck to look up into the Inquisitor’s eyes, the morning sun slanting through the window to illuminate his face. Dorian can’t help but smile when his eyes linger on the smattering of freckles across Kashek’s nose, the very first thing he’d ever noticed about the man. His heart lurches at the bruise on the side of the Inquisitor’s face, starting to yellow now. A bruise that perhaps Dorian could have prevented, had he been there on the last field mission. If he had not been so stubborn and foolish.

“Dorian?” The Inquisitor begins, his voice soft, pained, but he can’t seem to form the rest of the words.

Those normally-bright eyes are darker than usual, even in the sunlight, swimming with indecision. This close, Dorian can see flecks of copper in them, and the individual striations of brilliant green in the center of all that gold. For a few long seconds, that gaze lingers on Dorian’s mouth. Kashek bites his lower lip briefly, unconsciously. The gesture kindles a shivery warmth that starts low in Dorian’s body before rushing up his spine and stopping his breath in his lungs.

 _Here?_  Dorian wonders. The reading nook is not exactly the most private of places. Anyone walking by or on the opposite side of the tower could see.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t care. Not right now. Kashek’s scent surrounds him, the clean smell of fresh, plain soap and the old, well-worn leather of his coat. He can’t look away from the gleaming veridium of those eyes, and he doesn’t want to. Not anymore.

“My father never understood,” Dorian says. “Living a lie… it festers inside of you, like poison. You have to fight for what’s in your heart.” So hard, to drop his guard, to let the full meaning of those words through.

But something of his resolve must have shown. The Inquisitor’s conflicted expression softens, and he closes the gap between them completely.

Almost.

With their lips a handsbreadth apart, Kashek hesitates.

Confusion settles for a brief, unsettling moment, then realization dawns.

_He’s asking permission. Giving me the chance to turn away. Again._

_No._  Dorian shuts his eyes and closes that final distance, feeling something inside his chest shatter when their lips touch. A wall breaking.

The Inquisitor draws in a sharp, quick gasp against his lips, pulling the breath from Dorian’s lungs. Surprise, then.

_He really thought I would run again._

Dorian has little more time to think. This has been too long coming. Now given permission, the Inquisitor’s mouth is insistent on his own. Impatient, but still somehow painfully gentle. One strong hand slides around to hold the back of his neck and pull him close, but those scarred fingertips still brush so softly.

 _He kisses me like I might break_ , Dorian realizes. He’s not used to being treated like something fragile. It could be an insult, but instead it is touching, filling him with a warm, giddy light. Still, perhaps the Inquisitor needs a reminder that Dorian is not a wilting flower. He reaches up to grasp either side of Kashek’s face, careful of his bruises, and pulls him in for a deeper kiss. Lips part, and his tongue traces a line along the Inquisitor’s upper lip. The Qunari makes a small, low sound deep in the back of his throat, a wordless noise that needs no translation.

Just as Dorian feels his own body flush with heat, he remembers where they are. He breaks the kiss, but not without reluctance. Suddenly, like a door slamming, frustration washes over him when they part.

It seems he’s not alone. Kashek takes a long, halting breath, an entirely new fire in his eyes that is neither gentle nor hesitant. It wakens a similar echo of heat within Dorian, and his skin burns. But this is not the place.

That look of desire is one Dorian has seen before, if never yet in Kashek’s eyes. But as they both catch their breath and the fire cools, it’s replaced with a different light and a heartbreaking smile. The hand that had cupped the back of his neck now trails across his shoulder, down his arm until their fingers touch, then entwine. The Inquisitor’s eyes seem to glow in the sliver of light falling through the window. It’s an expression Dorian has never seen directed at him, one he never expected to.

It’s the same look Gereon used to give Livia, in happier times.

For a few long moments, Dorian can’t remember how to breathe. There is a single, terror-filled second in which the urge to flee overtakes him once again. But no, the die has been cast. What was the phrase he’d said to Kashek so long ago?  _‘We have no reserve, not in war and not in love.’_

Harder to do, in practice. But for this, he will try. His pulse still pounds, and adrenaline still fills him with a rush of warmth and light and heat. It makes him coy, restores his old confidence and banishes the fear.

“I see you enjoy playing with fire, Inquisitor.” He laughs lightly and tightens his grasp where his fingers tangle with Kashek’s rough gray ones.

The Inquisitor’s gaze glints with something almost akin to mischief, a small grin curving his mouth. “Only when it’s worth it.”

“The things you say,” Dorian teases, but he feels an answering smile on his lips. “Such flattery.”

“I never say anything I don’t mean,” Kashek replies, voice turning serious.

Dorian responds in kind. “I know.” He sighs, reluctantly pulling his hand free of the Inquisitor’s. “But this is neither the time nor the place. I have a lesson in an hour, and you have other duties to attend, I’m sure, something far more important to the Inquisition than raising a scandal with the Tevinter.”

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Kashek grasps his hand again, tugs him closer, and presses his lips against Dorian’s cheek gently. The Inquisitor’s chin is scratchy, rough with his ever-present stubble. “More important to my advisors perhaps, but not to me.” The words are a low murmur, barely more than a whisper. “But I fear they will come looking for me if I’m late.” Reluctantly, his hand slips out of Dorian’s and he steps away.

“Perish the thought,” Dorian grins. “Although it might be worth the expression on the Commander’s face.”

That elicits a deep, surprised chuckle from Kashek.

“So,” Dorian asks, “a conversation to continue later, then?”

The Inquisitor’s smile says more than his words ever could, but he responds anyway. “I would like that. This evening, then.” He turns slowly, unwillingly, his steps heavy as he leaves. For a moment, Dorian is tempted to call him back and damn the advisors, to retreat somewhere more private, but no.

Perhaps it’s a touch of masochism, this delayed fulfillment of a desire that’s already burned far too long. But the longest-awaited pleasures are often the sweetest, aren’t they?

He watches Kashek leave with a faint smile, feeling suddenly unburdened. Dorian has been carrying the weight of this indecision for far too long. He hadn’t completely realized how heavy it weighed until that burden was lifted.

He has a little time to kill before his lesson, time to slow his racing heart. As he selects a book and settles back into his chair, the pleasant glow fades, eaten away by the familiar wheedling doubts deep in his mind.  _This can’t last, you know,_  it reminds him. That look of adoration in Kashek’s eyes was never something intended for him, a stolen joy he does not deserve. And sooner or later, it will all come crashing down. Such madness, the Qunari Inquisitor and a Tevinter altus. Worse, a man of Kashek’s gentle, unflappable kindness and one with Dorian’s checkered past, dotted with shameful moments he only wishes he could forget.

 _It’s an ill fit, one that the Inquisitor will realize someday,_  the old fears tell him, tiny slicing blades in his heart.

So what? One day, it will all fall apart. All the more reason to make the most of it now then, while he can. There’s a relatively high chance that one or both of them will not survive this anyway. If he’s going to die a martyr, the best he can do is cause a dreadful scandal first, after all. And if they both do make it out alive, he will deal with the inevitable parting when it happens.

It wouldn’t be the first bruise on his heart.

Something deep within him rails against the cavalier nature of that thought, knows that this heartbreak will destroy him far worse than any other. Knows that he’s already in too deep.

Inside, Dorian is all too aware he’s already past the point of no return. Nothing left but to see it to the bitter end now, and take what small joys he can along the way.

 _Maybe someday I’ll be an interesting annotation in the history books, an oddity in the biography of the Inquisitor,_  he thinks to himself. He could imagine it now, how the historians would debate his role. The scheming mage that seduced the most powerful man in southern Thedas, or perhaps a tragic, overblown story of star-crossed lovers?

His mouth curves in a sardonic smile at the thought of that being the legacy of House Pavus, the very delicious disgrace of it.

As he crosses one leg over the other, settling more comfortably in the chair, he catches a faint whiff of Kashek’s scent lingering in the air. His stomach tightens as he replays the memory of the kiss. A shiver runs down his spine, his heart starting to race again. As first kisses go, it was a memorable one. Who could ever have predicted that the gentlest touch he’d ever felt would be a Qunari’s embrace?

And that  _look_. First so impassioned, then so painfully tender. Oh, how that had made his veins both race with fire and filled him with a light, bubbling sensation that was entirely new.

He shakes his head, a rueful smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Playing with fire, indeed.”

 


End file.
